The News Must Be Spread Further
by JoJo4
Summary: News of Emma's engagement spreads through Highbury and encounters varying degrees of resistance or well-wishing.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: This story stems from my new obsession with the BBC's 2009 adaption of _Emma_, starring Romola Garai and Johnny Lee Miller. After watching it a million times, I re-read the book, which had never been at any time my favorite Austen novel. I preferred _Persuasion_ or Pride & Prejudice. But . . . things change. After I got past Mr. Knightley's proposal scene, I was happy to recall that Austen's denouements are always very long and satisfying. Still, when I got to the end, I wanted more. What had John's letter said? How was Emma able to convince Mr. Woodhouse to let her marry? What did Frank Churchill think of the match, if he thought anything at all? And then I wondered some more, and finally thought, "Well, am I a fanfic writer or am I not?"

So here you are! I lifted a shameful bit of Austen's text for the first part, but subsequent parts (if I get around to writing them) on Mrs. Weston, possibly Frank Churchill, and Mrs. Elton too, will be completely original. Nor is this merely a copy. Austen seldom writes motion. The characters, for all you know, are sitting down talking for whole conversations. So I've inserted a bit more movement, while still trying to keep to Austen's voice.

Let me know what you think. Please let me know if you catch any typos.

The News Must be Spread Further

by Jenni

That Emma Woodhouse sitting with Mr. Knightley on the chaise, her small hand in his much larger one, should be so natural and easy would never have been imagined by their mutual friends or acquaintance. They themselves had blundered upon their feelings only when forced into a corner, and though now self-reflection revealed the match to be inevitable, they knew it could not appear so to others. Their friendship had never steered into the flirtations and gallantries of a public courtship that prepare a couple's wider circle for the inevitable announcement. No one suspected them; consequently, their explanations must be more elaborate. The first letters they sent were to John and Isabella in London, both thick missives bundled in the same packet, which were both long and thorough in preparing their readers for the pronouncement and quick to supply evidence in its favor.

It was mid-July, nearly a fortnight since they had formed the engagement, and the replies from their brother and sister comprised the first well-wishing they had received, and were consequently more prized and discussed than those they would read later. They were sitting with heads bent close together, in no danger of being discovered as Mr. Woodhouse took his customary turns outside the house, and enjoying each other's company and correspondence. Isabella's letter had been read and praised, but John's was longer and Mr. Knightley, who was listening to Emma's account of little Anna Weston, had trouble attending to it.

"I am so glad Mrs. Weston has a girl and not a boy," said Emma. "A boy has only so much to learn from his mother before he becomes dull and looks to his father, and it would be quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, should not have their powers in exercise again."

Mr. Knightley could not but agree. He had called on Randalls the day before and found Anna Weston so robust and precious a child that no one who had seen her could wish her other than she was.

"She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me," Emma continued—"like La Baronne d'Almane on La Comtesse d'Ostalis', in Madame de Genlis' Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own little Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan."

"That is," replied Mr. Knightley, pressing her hand meaningfully, "she will indulge her even more than she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will be the only difference."

"Poor child!" cried Emma, rising from her seat, for Mr. Knightley had been gazing at her so earnestly as to make her feel vulnerable, and walking round him on the excuse that she wanted to read over his shoulder, she placed the back of the sofa safely in between them. "At that rate, what will become of her?"

"Nothing very bad. The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older," said Mr. Knightley, who dropped his severe tone and allowed himself to be petted. He emitted a sigh of contentment when Emma placed her chin playfully upon his broad shoulder. "I am losing all my bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all my happiness to you, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be severe on them?"

Emma laughed and, going to the window, replied: "But I had the assistance of all your endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt whether my own sense would have corrected me without it."

"Do you? I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:—Miss Taylor gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, 'What right has he to lecture me?' and I am afraid very natural for you to feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without doting on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors, have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least."

Emma could not help smiling Mr. Knightley's gracious confession, hoping to hear more. His lectures and scolding had ceased, having given way into this new and easy way of falling into tender proclamations that delighted her. Her own inexperience and feelings of unworthiness mingled to make her shy, and she was unequal to matching his candid devotion, but she could ensure that her manner was not uninviting. Though she felt as much, she could not summon the words to express those precious sentiments to which he was so deservedly entitled. _Her_ exertions to reassure him of her affections were all in the mode of praising him for his superior character and judgment while belittling herself. Where in the past they might have quarreled over who was right, she felt that in giving way now she was showing him every proof of love that he required, and by deferring to his opinions she was paying homage to those excellent qualities which had drawn her unpracticed heart into its present state of bliss. But he would have none of it. She was not to be censured, not even by herself. She was the author of all his happiness and the paragon of womanhood. Her faults were endearments, and other women who had them not stood at a disadvantage, carrying all the unforgiveable defects of personality and predictability, which could never recommend them to an active mind such as his. Nor could those refined members of her sex who behaved with all due decorum out of habit compare to her, who had learnt true understanding of human nature and folly from trial and affliction. She was his own dear Emma, and though she knew it pleased him to hear her praise his guidance, she was happy in knowing he would not always require it.

At length he came to join her at the window. She had been away too long, and her soft eyes cast in his direction had beckoned as they conversed.

'Mr. Knightley.' You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from habit, it has not so very formal a sound," said he, taking her hand in his again. "And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I do not know what."

"I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as you made no objection, I never did it again."

"And cannot you call me 'George' now?"

She tried it, but found the word would not form in her mouth let alone leave it, and with a great deal of self-consciousness pronounced his request impossible. Twenty-one years of calling him by one name could not in a single day give way to another. "I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by calling you Mr. K. But I will promise," she added presently, laughing and blushing, "I will promise to call you once by your Christian name. I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where; -- in the building in which N. takes M. for better, for worse."

He did not look entirely pleased with her answer, but was un-offended, and they fell into easy conversation again, until, upon recollecting that John's letter sat opened upon the sofa for all eyes to see should they be interrupted, for indeed her father would presently be returning to the house.

"John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley, retrieving the letter and placing it in her hands. "Here is his answer, if you like to see it." It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her friend was unmentioned.

"John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley, "but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have, likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes."

Emma took it eagerly, expecting to find some intimation from John of how ill his brother had looked in London, or perhaps the expression of his relief at finally being admitted into the secret of why he had so recklessly quitted London on the 6th without so much as an excuse. She would have enjoyed hearing anything concerning the influence she had unconsciously exerted these past few months, which could allow her to more accurately speculate over what might have happened had she known her own heart sooner. She was disappointed, however. The opening of the letter was devoted to the merits of matrimony, with only a brief paragraph to spare in modest praise of the bride-to-be before it veered into a long and unrelated discussion of the outings John and Isabella had planned for their boys, a series of triumphs at the inns of court, and then a mention of their upcoming visit to Highbury. _"My Dearest Brother:,"_ it began:

_I shall leave you in no suspense, but immediately offer that most hearty congratulations for your welcome news, which, I feel at full liberty to add, I had once completely despaired of ever having the opportunity to bestow! You will not endure from my corner any of the usual mockery that accompanies such sudden reversals of bachelor resolve. You'll get no jibes on "bull's horns" or "good horse to hire" from me. It gives me infinite pleasure to think of you at last enjoying the pleasant company of a family gathered round your fire, and deriving that renewed sense of purpose in your daily endeavors and business which a man only feels when the comfort of his nearest and dearest is in question. You, who have enjoyed toil hitherto for its own sake and reaped the rewards alone, will find your joy increased tenfold to see that everything you do, all your exertions and accomplishments, have the immediate effect that your children and your wife are more safe, more secure, and more happy, and to know it was your hard labor that made them so. A single man may conserve his wealth, but a married man who spends a shilling upon some trifle for his wife and children receives more pleasure from their smiles than from any accounting in his ledger book._

_Perhaps I waste my ink in reinforcing a course of action you have already taken, for I have no doubt that over the course of this past year all these reflections and many more must have crossed your mind. From the opening tone of your letter of the 16th, I think you were expecting me to feel some great shock, but I have noted for many a month your softening views on domesticity. Your slew of projects for Donwell Abbey first gave you away, for after so many years of being master of your estate, I could not conceive why it should have been so pressing to undertake them now unless you had a particular object. As for the other symptoms, they are too numerous to write, but I will only say that I have been expecting a message such as this for several weeks, and that my only surprise is the choice of bride._

_Miss Emma Woodhouse has been my sister for so long that this development requires little adjustment on my part, but as for you, I cannot help but wonder when your affections transformed from those of a teacher towards a promising pupil into those of so dear a kind. She always was a clever girl, if a bit too apt to think herself always in the right, but has since grown into such a pretty young creature that I should perhaps not wonder at your change of heart. She is young yet. The disparity of judgment brought about by the considerable gap in your ages has narrowed but an inch. Still, under your continued tutelage I have no doubt she shall grow to be the worthy Mistress that Donwell Abbey has lacked since the passing of our beloved mother. Indeed my only real regret in learning of your plans is to know that in marrying Emma, Donwell gains not a Mistress, but even loses its Master for an indefinite period. Yet I know my father too well to suppose it can be helped._

_He will certainly disapprove of my latest scheme. Isabella and I will take the boys to Astley's soon . . ._

"He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the letter. Mr. Knightley's assessment had been more flattering than hers. The letter contained no compliments at all apart from calling her somewhat pretty, and had all but laughed at Mr. Knightley for having fallen prey to the very same unexceptionable attractions that bewitched lesser men. It left her vanity, dormant after the barrage it had suffered of late, smarting, but she had not so much left that she could disagree with John. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different construction, I should not have believed him."

"My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means—"

"He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,"—interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile— "much less, perhaps, than he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the subject."

"Emma, my dear Emma—"

She found his gentle hands framing her face, and his soft lips most unexpectedly pressed upon her own, and in this manner they continued for some time until they heard the latch of the door creak and her father's shuffling on the stoop. They parted with reluctance, he retreating to his chair and she remaining at the window, and there they waited like thieves nearly caught in the act as Mr. Woodhouse appeared at the entry of the drawing room.

"You are here again, Mr. Knightley," said he. "You must be careful about spoiling us with your morning visits, for we begin to expect them as much as your evening calls. I am afraid that I have been a negligent host this morning, but I must take my turns you see. Mr. Perry is adamant that I should keep to my regimen, but the heat is so tiresome. I rather wonder at your having come at all on such a day when it is broiling before noon."

"Oh, it was nothing at all, Sir," said Mr. Knightley, tucking his letter safely into his waistcoat pocket. "I am one who finds Mr. Perry entirely justified in recommending daily exercise. And I do not like to be long absent from Hartfield, for I think of it as quite my own home."

Mr. Woodhouse had since moved closer to his daughter, preparing to sit on the sofa, when he started at her strange expression. "Dear me, Emma you seem flushed. Are you quite well? My dear Emma, I wish you would not stand so near the window. You young people think yourselves immune, but last week there were several days when I thought you looked not at all well. Your cheek was so pale. Mr. Knightley, I had never seen her so altered, but she seemed to rally quickly. Only you have tired her and made her relapse."

"I don't think so," said Mr. Knightley, who sat straighter and looked more fully and with some degree of concern at Emma, who recalled that without hearing of her communications with Harriet, he did not have any reason to know why she had seemed out of humour.

"I am perfectly well, Papa," she said, but found herself unequal to regaining her composure. "Do not trouble Mr. Knightley on my account. But I am sure we would all benefit from Polly's lemonade. Indeed, let me call for some. On a hot day such as this, it can only do us good. I shall call for it directly."

And she hurried from the room to find the housekeeper. She had not gone five steps into the hall, when she heard Mr. Knightley fall in behind her. He had excused himself from the drawing room, wanting to be of assistance if Polly could not be found.

"Oh!" Emma cried with more thorough gaiety, as he caught up to her. "If you fancy your brother does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret, and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing you justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once. His tender compassion towards oppressed worth can go no farther."

"Ah!" he cried, with the memory of what had just passed between them making him more open, more playful than she had ever seen him. "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter—did you notice it? where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by surprise, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind."

"If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly unprepared for that."

"Yes, yes—but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my feelings. What has he been judging by? I am not conscious of any difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at this time for my marrying any more than at another. But it was so, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems always tired now.'"

"Well, you are not tired now," said she. "You are positively boyish, and, if they were here, I am sure you could run circles round little Henry and George, and then they really would be crying, 'Uncle.'"

A few more days of secrecy were all either could withstand. She felt taxed by the deception, rather wondering how Jane Fairfax could have endured it for ten months. He, being unused to putting off any task once he had set his mind to it, was anxious to begin the difficult planning that must accompany the joining not just of two hands, but of two households. The time was right, for Mrs. Weston had recovered enough to receive visitors, and with her approbation and gentle encouragement, so honoured at Harfield, there was no doubt that Mr. Woodhouse's would soon follow. The inevitable revelation was planned and rehearsed. Emma had but to choose her moment, which came one evening while Mr. Knightley had accepted a dinner invitation from the Coles, leaving her and her father alone by the backgammon table.

His absence was remarked upon, being the first evening in a fortnight that they had not seen him bent over his letters upon the old oak desk, when Mr. Woodhouse said, "The room seems emptier without Mr. Knightley here. He is always coming and going, but has been here so often of late that I had almost begun to think of him as almost a fixture."

Emma, who was at his feet setting up their game, saw her opening had arrived. She rallied her courage. It could not be put off. "I am so glad you have said so, Papa, for there is something I have been wanting to tell you for a while, and—if you would but give your consent—then Mr. Knightley might always be at your service, even more than he is now."

His welcoming countenance gave her hope; she was encouraged to continue. "I must prepare you that it is a strange scheme indeed, and one which no one but ourselves could think of, and even we took a very long time to alight upon it. You will feel surprise, I am sure. But it is an excellent plan, which he (that is Mr. Knightley) and I have discussed in great detail and organized so that it will result in increased happiness for all parties concerned. Whereas, if it is not put into effect, I am afraid that his and my comfort will decrease considerably, so much so that our health might be put at risk, and I am sure that you could never wish that upon anyone."

"Good Heavens, no! Tell me at once of this plan, and I am sure I will not object to it if it is so essential to anyone's well-being."

"Well, then I must tell you immediately that he (and by _he_, I mean Mr. Knightley) and I have been growing more highly in each other's estimation for some time now, and it is chiefly for this reason that we have decided upon this particular course of action now rather than sooner or later. . . And that action of which I am speaking should, in all fairness, take place within the next few months while John and Isabella and the children are able to be nearby . . . and while the weather is still so very fine, but not hot or cold enough to put anyone in the way of discomfort . . . and furthermore, what it _is_ . . . well, he (and again by _he_, I mean Mr. Knightley, whom you love) and I . . . we mean to marry, and he shall move to Hartfield."

The last words were spoken very quickly, and when she paused to see how her father would take this news, for a moment she wondered if he had not caught them. But he was smiling only, and he took her hand with a laugh saying, "My dear child, here you have introduced this idea as something to promote our welfare, but I think you do not quite understand all that marriage entails for a young woman, for having a husband and a husband's affairs to manage are quick tasking and shall age you very quickly. Suitors are all gallantry and compliments, but husbands are a plague. They create headaches, pains, and sufferings of all kinds for their unfortunate wives. Think of poor Isabella, and poor Miss Taylor. And oh, your poor, unhappy mother!

"Let me assure you, my dear, that I am not in so bad a way as to require you to marry Mr. Knightley simply that he may have an excuse for removing to Hartfield to care for me. I know you have no intention of ever marrying. I have heard you say so a thousand times, and although it is thoughtful of you to put your resolution aside and risk your health for my sake, let me assure you how unnecessary such a drastic step would be."

This was not at all what Emma had expected, and she tried a different tact. "But Papa, you forget that Mr. Knightley and I have been friends so long and get along so well that we are quite a different element from John and Isabella and Mr. and Mrs. Weston; for Mr. Knightley and I are more likely to be ill and out of sorts when apart than together. Were you not complaining that I looked pale while he was in London? And did I not recover as soon as he returned?"

"You did, but consider that you regained yourself while being yet unmarried and after such regular visits as Mr. Knightley has always paid while single. And you do not think of your other friends. I am sure you cannot do without them as much as you cannot do without Mr. Knightley. Marriage would take you away from your home and your duties, for though you say now that a husband will not steal you away, consider how Isabella and poor Miss Taylor have withdrawn into their families so as to have very little to do with their former acquaintance, although I am sure they would not neglect us if they were free to do otherwise."

This was not entirely fair to either her sister or to Mrs. Weston, thought Emma, nor to their husbands, but it would not do to class herself with them. She must work on breaking the analogy insofar as she could. "Yet Papa, but Isabella and Mrs. Weston moved away from Hartfield, while Mr. Knightley will come here. If, as you say, marriage causes its subscribers to retreat into domesticity, then he will be more frequently here than anywhere else. And even this past fortnight when he has been here twice a day, it is not so often that you do not miss him tonight. You will not deny it, can you?"

"Indeed, I do not, my dearest, but—"

"Whom are you always wishing to consult on business? Who else is so useful to us? Think how he carried the pitcher of lemonade for me this Tuesday. Even Polly could not manage such a heavy object. And who is so ready to write your letters and so glad assist without ever grudging you his time? He is always so cheerful and attentive and so very attached you. Can you not see the benefits of having him always on the spot?"

"When you put it that way, I can see a great advantage to myself. I will not deny it. Yet think of the great burden it will place on Mr. Knightley to be managing my affairs as well as Donwell's, and to do it in a house not his own. Recall how much older he is than you, my dearest. Sixteen years! You, with your youth and vigour may never have thought how much it will take for a man of Mr. Knightley's age to maintain such energy as is needed to manage two households. No, he is here every day, which is often enough, and more is not to be desired by anyone."

Here Emma's lip trembled and her eyes grew wet with tears to think of Mr. Knightley as being at all ill or tired for her sake. How glad she was that he was not present to hear her father! "But consider, Papa, how deeply I love him, and think how much he feels in return if he would risk his health as you say merely to secure your happiness and mine. Consider how where love is concerned, marriage is always, nay the _only_, proper course of action."

This was enough to silence him. His obstinacy could not persist long against the fatherly affection that cherished his daughter's happiness above all. But he was distressed, most distressed that his earthly peace should be so unexpectedly disturbed. He pushed the backgammon table away and looked for a long time at the unlit fireplace while his daughter fidgeted over her work on the sofa. She glanced at him now and then, spoiling her needlework in her preoccupation with how grieved her news had made him. An hour passed this way before he moved again when he called for his tea in a voice of tolerable strength as could convince Emma that the worst had passed. Her deepest fears subsided. The fluttering of anxiety dissipated. The idea of marriage had been introduced, and her father's resistance, though it had upset her exceedingly, was quelled for the moment. If she heard him muttering from time to time, "To think you should ever drop your resolution of never marrying," it was not enough to raise her alarm. Mr. Knightley would come in the morning, and smooth it all over, and soon Mrs. Weston, that kindest and best loved of friends, would be among her arbiters.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: I have trouble thinking of anything besides _Emma_. Yesterday I went to see _The Book of Eli_ for a bit a change. If anyone has seen the trailers, it's about one man's journey of faith through a post-apocalyptic world where water and shampoo are the most expensive commodities. It's about as far as you can get from civilized Highbury. But one scene has Denzel Washington intruding on the desolate property of an elderly couple, and who should appear at the door but (dun dun dun) Michael Gambon. I immediately thought, "Oh, it's Mr. Woodhouse!" Mr. Woodhouse, of course, turned out to be a machine-gun toting, grenade hoarding cannibal. I think it would be very funny to see what Emma would think if she could see what her father was doing in the film:

"It troubled her to no extent that he should have become so very wild. He had always been eccentric and withdrawn, preferring his own house to anyone else's. Yet he had retained a welcome manner and a strong sense of hospitality, which she was sorry to note had disappeared entirely beneath this novel veneer of violence. He was now more likely to shoot his visitors on sight and have them _for _dinner than to simply invite them _to_ it. It was a most unfortunate business, and Emma felt the degradation keenly. Apart from seeing her father exert himself more than before, her only cause for rejoicing, although she tried not to think it, was that Mrs. Elton might one day pay a call."

Anyway, I've fixed some typos in the first chapter. There still is one that I saw before and can't find. I'm sure I'll catch it one of these days. In the meantime, here is Chapter II. Haven't gotten to Randalls, but I'm on my way!

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Chapter II

By Jenni

Mr. Woodhouse awoke the next morning in the same aggravation of spirits in which he had gone to bed. The fine weather and gentle, cooling breeze that chased away the previous day's languor, applied no balm to his troubled heart. He relived all the fears and unpleasant sensations he had experienced when Emma had first broken the news to him. Foremost in his imagination upon waking was the scene of his beloved daughter carted away weeping from her home, while he bid bitter farewell to his last and best companion, the delight of his eyes, the soother of every sorrow, and the solace of his old age. He next pictured her burdened by a pack of screaming children, broken and faded, while her oblivious husband wrote his letters in the next room. His mind was not one inclined to self-reflection. Terrible oppression and regret were all he saw of her future, which no knowledge of Emma's good sense, Mr. Knightley's superior being or Isabella's and Mrs. Weston's happiness could alleviate. Marriage had been the undoing of his own beloved wife. Therefore marriage was an evil.

He could not understand that these horrors were the product of his own dislike of change and his selfish desire to keep his treasures close at hand, and that Emma's children, far from being a burden, might in time provide the same comfort, pride, and happiness for her as she did for him.

That Mr. Knightley had promised to remove to Harfield made no impression on Mr. Woodhouse. He, who would never leave his own house, could not suppose any man to think differently. Mr. Knightley had an honest character, to be sure, and there could be no question of his truly meaning to honour his present offer to live at Hartfield, but he fuss of moving would prove too much, and he would change his mind when it came to the point.

Emma's presence at the breakfast table, dressed as she always dressed and buttering her toast as she always did, gave him hope that he might have dreamed the whole of their last conversation. She did not seem agitated or depressed. Her cheerful greeting allowed him to linger in his delusion some moments more; but when the bell rang to announce that Mr. Knightley had called to join their breakfast, she hurried away to greet him in the hall. They came in together, her arm wrapped under his, and both smiling so keenly at Mr. Woodhouse that he could no longer doubt his memory. Unease settled over him once again as he considered his old friend with warring feelings of pleasure in seeing his familiar presence at the table and ill-use at having his daughter stolen from him without so much as an apology. Mr. Knightley was all smiles and, "How d'ye dos," with no hint of remorse. He meant to have her, it was plain; and Emma was encouraging him to an alarming degree.

"Good morning, Mr. Knightley," said Mr. Woodhouse, with uncharacteristic gruffness. "Won't you have a seat?" He pointed not to the accustomed chair at his left, but to one at the far end of the table. Mr. Knightley was obliged for propriety's sake to take it, though he could not reach the sausages, toast, or eggs, and Emma had to ask the servants to fetch them for him. But it seemed this deliberate breach of hospitality was lost on Mr. Knightley. No discouragement on Mr. Woodhouse's part would alloy his joy. He would talk of nothing but weddings, and for all their years of friendship, he seemed cruelly determined not to notice his friend's discomfort on the subject. Reclining in his chair as if in his own home, looking so often at Emma with unchecked admiration, he was, "So delighted with her — so happy that he could not think — She was the best creature he had ever known — such attention to the poor — such innate goodness and patience and fortitude of character — Only sorry he had not asked sooner — might have saved himself and her some grief — they were most solicitous for his comfort —the wedding would not be planned until they could be sure of his blessing —Of course Hartfield was still his house — Mr. Knightley could never supplant him — did not Emma look lovely? — a fine complexion, beautiful eyes — the very pink of health — the wedding must be when John and Isabella were in Highbury for the holiday — No sir, not that anyone had presumed so far as to set a date, that is — Was not the weather very inviting? A walk was most tempting. — Delighted to have his approval! — Or at least hoping it would not be long in coming —A little exercise was the very thing he needed . . . "

Before Mr. Woodhouse was able to say much on the subject, either in its favour or against, Mr. Knightley was leaving the table. A quarter of an hour only had passed between his entry and his exit, and in such a short time he had shown himself to be so very attached to Emma; perhaps no man could be more so. How long had Mr. Knightley been coming to Hartfield, not to talk business, not to enjoy Cook's famous roast, not to play backgammon or to enlighten his neighbors as to the goings-on in town, but with the chief objective of admiring the lady of the house? And how long had Hartfield's mistress wiled away her afternoons and evenings looking out the drawing room window, searching the gravel walk for the one tall, familiar figure whose appearance would set her heart fluttering and absence produce a tract of sighs?

It would be unfair to assume that such feelings were altogether unfamiliar to Mr. Woodhouse. Who is to say that in his youth he had not started at the sight of some very fine eyes? Perhaps he had even gone so far as to _think_ of risking his health riding through the rain to see a lady. But glancing backwards to events at such a distance removed from his present knowledge and understanding, he could not single out one fond memory that would bend his heart towards the lovers. He saw only that Mr. Knightley had caught some of the marriage fever stirred up by Frank Churchill, had settled upon Emma, and that she—being rightly flattered—had not thought it through.

"Will you come with me to visit Mrs. Weston?" asked Emma, who had remained at the table. "I dare say you will like the baby when you see her."

"I have never seen Mr. Knightley behave so strangely," said he. "Such a stream of words, my dear! I think all this talk of marriage has gone to his head and made him run a bit mad. You had better abandon your scheme at once."

"Nonsense, papa. Your dark looks made him nervous. You are not accustomed to seeing him so discomfited, but it is his nature. There is one occasion when he was most agitated that I have heard him speak in starts. "

Mr. Woodhouse observed a slight blush upon his daughter's face, but thought he had better not inquire lest he revive some precious memory that would only solidify her resolve.

"He is so very anxious to have your approval," she continued. "Yet you made him sit at the opposite end of the table and stared at him all throughout breakfast as if he were on display in a glass case. Such a greeting for an old friend like Mr. Knightley! No wonder he left as soon as he did."

"You are right, my dear. I was perhaps too ungracious just now. I hope he will forgive me for it. But it is too great a shock, my dear, to sensible Mr. Knightley so carried away with this illogical talk of weddings."

"But there is nothing illogical about it, papa," cried Emma, with great feeling. "He and I are of equal rank in society and nearly equal wealth. In marrying, we shall incur no loss of friendship or comfort, but only stand to gain by that closer connection which will draw all our nearest relations to us more frequently. He is so eager that both you and I be happy that he would do anything in his power to achieve it. What other husband would not exercise his superior claims and take me from you? What other son could be more dutiful, more loving, more attentive?"

"You are right, my dear. And he was so expressive on the point. I had no idea he felt so much. But I still think it a bad idea, one hastily conceived. I wish you would not talk of it as being decided."

"Very well, papa, I will not mention it again today. I will only be your attentive and loving daughter. But I must go to Randalls. I am expected there, and I must go early, for if I wait too long Mrs. Weston shall be tired from all her visitors."

"Oh poor Miss Taylor! You see what it is to be a wife, my dear?" said Mr. Woodhouse. "Young people put very little stock in the advice of their elders, fancying us to imagine all sorts of disasters and mishaps, but there is nothing to replace the reason of experience. Do anything rather than marry young. You give up all freedom, all independence, all good health and subjugate yourself entirely to the wills of your family."

"But, as you were so generous as to point out last night, Mr. Knightley is not marrying young," said his daughter. "And as for subjugating one's own whims to those of . . . well, I promised you I would not speak of it again today."

She was smiling still, but he thought she was not in spirits as she was before. He was not insensible that his own severity of manner may have put her out of humour, but could not bring himself to apologize for it. He had given her the best advice he had to offer, and only hoped it would take. Young people might do as they pleased, but happily most possessed impressionability in equal spades so that all would be well if one might only convince them that they pleased to do the opposite.

---

All the sage words Mr. Woodhouse had at his command that morning did not prevent Emma from meeting Mr, Knightley at the appointed place by the hedgerow. The greetings were constrained by disappointment. Each had hoped for better. He had stayed at Hartfield only a quarter of an hour. They had agreed the night before that he would stay longer to arrange the settlement if the interview went well, but in the event itself Mr. Knightley had seen quite quickly that an extension would have been more likely to hinder their cause than help it. Allies were what they required. He knew Emma was to visit Mrs. Weston. He would be happy to escort her.

"Oh, why did we tell him?" cried Emma, when they had walked for a while. "Why did we not keep it to ourselves just a little longer? Such things he said about you! And how saucily I almost replied!"

"_Almost _and not _saucy _is the word you must think of," said Mr. Knightley. "I have never known you to be undutiful, even on such a point. Your fortitude is admirable, my Emma. Do not let concerns for your own conduct add to our troubles."

"And that is perhaps the first time you have told me not to be vigilant of my own conduct," she replied, which caused Mr. Knightley to color. She felt that he did not want to be teased again and so frequently about their many past arguments. He would be serious.

"Anyway it is no more than we expected," he continued. "And your father has not outright forbidden it."

"But he is unhappy. More so than I estimated. I hear nothing but, 'How old is poor Mr. Knightley!' and 'Dear Emma, you do not know what you are about.' I thought he would trifle over the complications of setting up two households and then desist when we made it absolutely certain that you would come to Hartfield. But he does not. One would think we had planned an elopement."

"Let us talk sensibly. An elopement would take several days to plan and several more to execute. A fortnight at least."

Emma laughed at him, very naturally placing her right hand upon his shoulder as if to check his calculations. Her hand was gloved, but still she felt the strong muscle shift as he turned towards her, and once had had done it, she could not recover her former state of absolute composure. His attractions as he stood before her were too strong. His towering figure had too much to recommend him. The smile she had once wished he would wear more often was now omnipresent, and together with the light in his handsome eyes, they drew her irresistibly closer. But they were on a public road, in view of the several passersby, and though their easy manner of speaking might produce some speculation, they felt unequal to doing anything which would incur any malicious gossip. Randalls was their destination, and could not be reached soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Just warning you all that in the process of actually thinking up a plot, I realized the title to this story might not be suitable much longer. I might change it in the next chapter.

Thanks to those of you who commented on Mr. Woodhouse's characterization. My idea is that as annoying as it is, the man actually has a very good point. Emma _is_ young, and pregnancy was not easy on a woman in the 19th century. Granted, women married earlier in the Regency and had less to do in life, but I think Emma valued her independence and did not particularly crave family life. If she hadn't been so very much in love with Mr. Knightley . . . if, in other words, she had chosen Frank Churchill, I think there would be good cause for asking her to wait another year or two.

---

Chapter III

By Jenni

Never before had the walk to Randalls been as pleasant to Emma as it was while she strolled arm in arm with Mr. Knightley. The gravel road was flanked in the vibrant summer wildflowers of knapweed and harebell so that all the countryside seemed laid open to them in lustrous colour. Buoyed by the glorious weather, his manner was jovial, as it had been since that wondrous day when they had confessed and exchanged every tender feeling; but this morning in his way of addressing her there was a new openness of speech that Emma could not recall him extending to her before. He invited her opinion on every topic from his plans for the estate to the position he had recently secured for Sarah Larkins with the Coles's. Emma deemed it a pleasure to bestow the necessary reassurance that would be her duty to provide from here on. She knew very little about landscaping, but she thought his plans for Donwell excellent; she did not know anything of the Coles's needs for a housekeeper and even less of Sarah Larkins, but his charity was most admirable. Everything he did was for the best and could not be better. It was not until they were almost in sight of Randalls that he first gave any hint of wanting more than her assent.

"Dearest Emma, are you listening?" he asked as they crossed the gates that divided the public road from the long path cutting through Randall's verdant greensward.

"Of course, Mr. Knightley," said she. Then, daringly, she added, "When I am not admiring how our walk has animated you, that is."

"If that be the case, I will not prevent your thoughts from wandering," he replied. "But should you ever find what I am saying more interesting than my figure, allow me to say that you needn't agree with me always. It is not in your nature, and I do not expect it."

"Then I shall never cease to study you, Mr. Knightley, if to do so means we must quarrel."

"Not to quarrel. Merely to express a difference of opinion, as we have had in the past. I have not meant through our several disagreements to silence you forever."

"Yet I recall you being right on every occasion when we have quarreled. And how do I dare disagree with your superior wisdom? If I did not know your principles to be utterly incorruptible, I should fear leading you astray."

Emma's thoughts darted to poor Harriet Smith, pining for Mr. Knightley in Brunswick Square, the unintended consequence of her own meddling. Anxiety touched her for one, brief moment, for she was not yet transformed into such a rational creature that she could not imagine Mr. Knightley in love with Harriet Smith.

"No, you need not fear leading me astray," he said, with a smile. Then, perhaps sensing that she was growing uncomfortable, although unable to ascertain why, he stopped and placed his hand below her chin. "Don't cast your eyes down, my love. You needn't be ashamed of the past. You have learned from your errors. But as for my being always right, that is not so."

"Oh, I never believed you are _always_ right. There was a day last week when you said it would rain, but the weather stayed very fine. Yet in matters of real importance, even when I was insolent and foolish, I could not deny your superior understanding."

"I doubt that very much," said he.

"I would readily disagree with you on _that_ point," said Emma. "Especially, since you have told me how much you like it when our opinions differ, and also because I am in the mood to comply with your every whim. But you will find me unmovable, and I am quite determined to carry the argument, so we had better stop. I do not wish to arrive in Mrs. Weston's parlour looking flushed."

"Then I shall not make you blush by telling you how beautiful you look today," said he. "But I see the color rising in your cheek despite my best efforts. Ah, well, Mrs. Weston will attribute it to the exercise, I suppose."

"Mrs. Weston will do no such thing," said Emma. "She will only observe us once together, looking more exhilarated in each other's company than we have ever been at any other time, and she will know the whole of it. I think she has suspected something for weeks. I have been far too pleased since Frank Churchill's engagement. She might well have guessed I already possessed immunity from a romantic attachment in some other corner."

Mr. Knightley did not look as amused by her statement as she had intended. He had started at the name of Frank Churchill, only to remain silent, venturing only to say, "Yes, I suppose Mrs. Weston would find it incomprehensible for any young lady not to fancy herself in love with Frank Churchill."

"Mr. Knightley—"

"There is 'Mr. Knightley' again. It is so formal," said he, and though no outwardly sign marred his tranquil countenance, Emma was well-acquainted with his moods and knew she had hurt him. She wished she had not mentioned Frank Churchill. _She_, who dreaded to hear him say the name of her own friend, felt she should have exercised greater discernment. "You say it seems strange to you," he continued, "but can you not call me 'George?'"

Emma would have said yes, called him 'George' or 'my dearest love,' and thrown herself into his arms, but they had arrived at the door to Randalls and it was too late. Hannah opened it even before they knocked, and in half a minute they had shuffled into the drawing room where they found Mrs. Weston rocking the baby in her arms. It was the very picture of felicity, thought Emma, and she could not help but wish her father had come with them. For if he had, she was sure that upon seeing Mrs. Weston's tranquil countenance, even he could not have summoned the will to describe her as "poor Miss Taylor."

Contrary to her expectations, however, Mrs. Weston did not seem to notice the overpowering effect of love on her visitors. Had she not been half as preoccupied with little Anna as to allow them more initial attention than a hello, she would have seen merely signs of discomposure on Emma's part and some vexation on Mr. Knightley's. But it all disappeared the moment they sat down, although not before Emma saw him take up a miniature silhouette of Frank, undoubtedly the gift of Jane Fairfax. It had been sitting on a small table beside the sofa, and there he replaced without comment, setting it face down to prevent anyone else from admiring the likeness.

"What beauty!" exclaimed Emma, "But I will not pretend to be surprised with such a mother." Then, bewildering Mrs. Weston with an uncharacteristic pronouncement, she added, "If I were blessed with a daughter possessing half as much charm, I dare say I would be well satisfied."

"She is the most delightful creature," said Mr. Knightley at once, leaning forward to see the baby more clearly. "You can see her smile will be just like her father's when she is older, but I do not think she has quite mastered it yet. But see, the mouth is the same."

"You are the first one to notice, Mr. Knightley. And yet that is just what I thought from the first, but Mr. Weston demurs. He insists all the beauty comes from me, and the smile too. How he and Emma flatter me! Ah, but Mr. Weston is in the garden, and I believe he had a question of business for you. Hannah will call him."

"It is nothing dire, I hope. I am afraid I must return to Donwell shortly, but I would be most obliged to speak about it with him tomorrow."

"Nothing like," said she. "I am sure it was something only about your landscaping project, but he must explain it."

In half a second her attention had returned to little Anna, who was cooing less contentedly than before. She had begun to fuss and cry, and only by giving her her full attention could Mrs. Weston prevent the situation from becoming worse.

Emma took the opportunity to catch Mr. Knightley's eye. "Will you not escort me home to Hartfield before returning to Donwell?" whispered Emma. Her entreaty was heartfelt, and so certain was she of his noticing the love radiating from her eyes that when he answered, "Of course," she felt completely understood. Gently she placed his hand over his, and she meant to call him by his Christian name, but still her stubborn tongue was mute. Willing as she was, she could not bring herself to say, 'George.' As before, it seemed sacrilegious to call him anything but, "Mr. Knightley," and a bashful grin was the only thing she could command herself to produce.

It was silence that alerted them to the fact that Mrs. Weston had succeeded in comforting the baby, and they turned towards her to find her questioning gaze fixed upon them. In an instant, Emma knew the reason. Their hands were still joined between them on the sofa, and if that were not enough, her sudden blushing gave them away. The suspicion she had predicted would dawn in Mrs. Weston's mind upon seeing her agreeably engaged in conversation with Mr. Knightley had indeed been created. But a moment's clarification would commute that suspicion to knowledge. Only a moment before she ended at last this unnatural concealment from her dear friend! Now she might unfold the secrets of her heart and be validated, supported, and supplemented by one whose loving words she had yearned to hear in approbation of this most consequential of decisions.

Mr. Knightley sensed that until he left, neither woman could be fully open with the other. The effusion of minutiae regarding Emma's thoughts and feelings, her many sighs before his declaration, her agitation during, and her great relief and elation afterwards, which were about to be conveyed to Mrs. Weston, would be made and received with infinitely more pleasure without him nearby to judge their reasonability. Nor would Mrs. Weston praise his character, his figure, or his estate while he could hear her. Dutifully, he excused himself. He thought he should see Mr. Weston immediately rather than wait until tomorrow. With a bow, he was gone.

"How sly you are, my Emma!" cried Mrs. Weston when he had left. "I know you are keeping something from me, but I have a poor record with these sorts of guessing games, as you know. I am almost afraid to venture a conjecture."

"If you would guess that Mr. Knightley and I are engaged, then conjecture all you please," she said, laughing.

"Oh, my dearest child! Can it be true?" was Mrs. Weston's cry, and Emma suspected that but for little Anna on her lap, she might have leapt to her feet in shock.

"Oh but it can. At times I scarce believe it, but indeed it can!" cried Emma an outpouring of joy that effected the immediate relief of Mrs. Weston's doubts, if not her curiosity. Her questions were numerous and rapid in their succession. Emma had but a quarter of an hour before Mr. Knightley could return, and in that time how could she answer them all?

"You ask how and when and why," said she, "but all I can say is that I have loved him all my life, and foolish girl that I am, I only learnt my own heart as early as I learnt the news of Frank's engagement, when I feared— Oh, but I am too ashamed to repeat what I feared! I knew he had gone to London to be away from me, and I thought my heart might break, but when he returned he came straight away to Hartfield. He thought me in love with Frank. Lending me comfort was his first order of business, and when he discovered I required none, then confessing his feelings to me was his second! For _he_, he has loved me nearly as long, but despaired of ever winning me. Can you believe it? Such a man as he is, to be wondering whether a woman could ever find room for him in her heart? For he is kind, generous, handsome, and in general so superior a man that, excepting Mr. Weston, of course, I know I shall never find either his better or his equal if I roamed this vast world thriceover."

"'Excepting Mr. Weston,' indeed," laughed his wife. "I know you say so only to humour me, for you do not think anyone at all is better than your Mr. Knightley. I see it in your eye, my dear. How blissful, how happy you look! I have wished so often to see you thus, and now that I do, I find myself well satisfied at last with everything and everyone but myself. Oh, to think how I have blundered in this regard! How often I set my will towards a match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax! And many times Mr. Weston and I spoke of you and Frank as a settled couple while he was in the room. My words must have been a torture to you all!"

"I will not say they were without sting," laughed Emma. "But perhaps they hastened the inevitable, for both of us were hopelessly blind until jealousy lifted the shade."

"Then I will not apologize overmuch. Yet how stupid I was not to have seen it all earlier! For who else but you has commanded Mr. Knightley's interest and good-will for so long? He and I used to chat about you over the years, and the last time we did so, he praised your beauty to high heaven. I should have seen it then. And he? Who could be more worthy of you than Mr. Knightley? Who else would be so understanding of your father?"

"Oh, my father," said Emma, and a cloud fell over the conversation. She related her father's reaction to the news, his general disapproval, and her fears that he might never be reconciled to the match. And if he should not, then could they marry without his consent? It was impossible to think so, yet equally impossible not to. Her only solace was that her sister and Mrs. Weston might persuade him in time.

"Do not worry, my Emma. If you desire it, Mr. Weston and I will spread the news throughout town as if it were gossip. Then you need not fret about being undutiful in continuing to announce something your father finds distressing. Everyone will know by the end of the week as a fixed plan. They will come to congratulate you, and eventually your father will also come to think of it as being settled. I know him almost as well as you, and uncomfortable as he is, he would never stand in the way of something that everyone deems best. But if you prefer to keep it a secret engagement until you have gained his blessing, then I shall comply with your wishes."

"Do do, spread the news," said Emma with a laugh. "Secret engagements may be all the rage, but if I shall certainly go mad if I must pretend to others that I do _not_ love Mr. Knightley. Ah! If Mr. Perry might only be convinced to recommend marriage for my health, then papa might be tolerably at ease."

"My dear, your father only wants the best for you. He is no friend to change, but you and I both know he would do anything in his power to make you happy."

Mrs. Weston could help it no longer. She entreated Emma once again for the circumstances leading to her epiphany, and Emma endeavored to supply them. They sat in conversation until Anna began to fuss again and Mr. Knightley returned with Mr. Weston. The latter was smiling broadly, coming immediately to Emma to shake her hand, whereupon Mrs. Weston expressed her whole-hearted congratulations to Mr. Knightley.

"You are the very first to take my hand and tell me what a happy man my wife will make me and how well I deserve her," said he to Mrs. Weston. "And all the more do I honour you. I was beginning to expect an uphill battle in all corners."

"I don't see how," said Mr. Weston. "I saw this coming on for months, and I am sure I cannot be the only one who noticed. Always looking each other's way. Always so solicitous for each other's comfort. I once thought I had something of great import to tell Emma, and poor girl, her only thought was that I'd seen you lying in a ditch somewhere."

"What's this?" asked Mr. Knightley with a smile. Emma felt they were within half a second of getting to Frank Churchill. She inquired about whether or not little Anna required her nap. The child was indeed tired and ought to be put to bed. Emma and Mr. Knightley would go, but not before Mr. Weston had clapped the latter on his back and said, "We used to joke about Emma marrying Frank, but I always said it wouldn't do. No, she has her mind set on some other fellow, and poor Frank will be heartbroken. It is a good thing he has Miss Fairfax. A good thing indeed!"


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry it took so long to write this. Real life intruded. Thank you so very much to those who reviewed. It makes me feel like someone is actually reading. Enjoy!

Also, I like Frank Churchill (from the BBC version). I think he's immature and a bit egotistical, and he has to learn his lesson just as Emma learned hers.

* * *

Chapter IV

By Jenni

"Good God, what an idea!" Frank Churchill exclaimed, throwing Jane's letter upon the desk. He had sequestered himself in his dressing room for half an hour to enjoy what a missive he expected to contain only those endearments his beloved generally employed, a statement of how oppressed she found life in Highbury without him, a brief list of her aunt's quirks, and a slightly longer one detailing Mrs. Elton's latest transgressions. Yet here at the end was not merely Jane's familiar, fond closing, but an additional article of local gossip proclaiming that charming, delightful Miss Emma Woodhouse was to marry that disagreeable Mr. George Knightley, a man who might be ten or even twenty years her senior, to be sure! He was an honorable man, of course, whom Frank would never dare criticize when there was a chance that one of his listeners might leap to his defense—but he could not imagine a person more severe. The evidence supporting his opinion was that he preferred his own gelding to Frank's black stallion, that he never flinched in Mrs. Elton's company but always appeared supremely interested, and that on Box Hill he had overheard him from afar chastise Miss Woodhouse like a child. That Miss Woodhouse must be forever subject to such oppression was intolerable.

Frank had never suspected the attachment for a moment; had never even thought to himself in his greatest moments of danger, when he felt he might be cultivating Miss Woodhouse's friendship too well for his liking, that it might be a good thing for Mr. Knightley to supplant him. For despite what he had written in his letter to Mrs. Weston, Frank Churchill had not always been certain that Miss Woodhouse was perfectly indifferent to him. He had only _sensed_ his attentions were not of a kind capable of attaching her. Considering the hidden guilt he had never dared admit even to himself, some might expect the news of Miss Woodhouse's engagement to ease his conscience. He himself was surprised when it did not, and he sat for a long time in quiet distress that would not be put to rest when he had ascertained its cause. Only the dinner announcement reclaimed his attention, and for his uncle's sake he put Miss Woodhouse out of his mind so that he might appear to enjoy his veal and custard as tolerably as man in heavy mourning is allowed to enjoy anything.

Late that night, however, when he had retired for the evening, he found the unchecked weight of self-reflection pressing upon his shoulders once more. That energetic young woman and _that_ man, who had never offered him a kind word if he could help it. Droll and unpleasant at every turn, the stern master of Donwell Abbey had never appealed to Frank, whose set in male society had never welcomed anyone lacking his own affability and openness of manner. It had not dawned on him that Mr. Knightley, viewing him as a rival, had treated him with the animosity on purpose, and that such behavior evidenced the deeper sensibility of which Frank presently considered him incapable. Accustomed to being liked, unable to comprehend what faults he might possess to prevent his popularity from being universal, Frank truly disliked Mr. Knightley, but felt that until now he had not known it. With this realization, came a new, unsettling feeling. Why should he mind if Miss Woodhouse married Mr. Knightley? What claim upon Miss Woodhouse, apart from friendship, did he have that should cause him to begrudge the match? He did not wish to marry her himself, but he was very far from wishing her ill. Frank thought her one of the most amiable women of his acquaintance; he enjoyed her smiles, her praise, her teasing; and although it inspired no passion in him, he found he could not relinquish the idea of being first in her eyes to one such as Mr. Knightley. How could it have happened?

No matter how many recollections of his time in Highbury Frank called to mind, it remained his firm conviction that Miss Woodhouse could not love Mr. Knightley. He had never seen it in her eye or any blush or manner of speaking, but always spoke of Mr. Knightley as one would expect a family friend to be spoken of. "Mr. Knightley will call in an hour," or "Mr. Knightley attaches greater importance to the balance of carriage wheels than to the carriage itself," or, most damning in Frank's opinion, "Dear me, Mr. Knightley would not approve of how we gossip."

Frank Churchill relied on Jane's judgment of character and motive, but in supposing Emma Woodhouse to be sincerely attached to Mr. Knightley, she was undoubtedly as mistaken as she had been that July when she accused _him_ of being attached to Miss Woodhouse, unleashing such venomous and stinging words that he still shuddered to think of it. _"If you say you do not love her, and still pay her such attentions, then you are twenty times less the man than that figment of a man whom I have erred in holding so high in my estimation. For she is half in love with you, and I am much mistaken if the whole of Highbury does not think you already bound to her in honor."_

Jane's angry speech had been all but forgotten in recent weeks, but they flashed across Frank's mind like wildfire. He stumbled over the truth like a man blunders into an unseen ditch. He had done Emma Woodhouse grievous wrong in flirting so openly last spring and summer. He must have engaged her affections at some point and she, being disappointed, had accepted the first proposal she received from someone else. She was determined to save face, and in doing so she would make herself the most miserable creature on God's earth; and it was no one's fault but his own!


End file.
